Just a Walk in the Park on 9-11

The afternoon has arrived when I have my grandson all to myself.  I am in a state of grandma euphoric bliss.  Mommy is at work. Daddy is napping after working all night. One of my very best friends, the baby's other grandma, is out of town. The great-grandparents have gone home to rest. Uncle is in the coffee shop studying.  The baby is all mine!  After feeding him, I buckle Joey into his stroller and off we go to explore my neighborhood for the very first time...together.

It's just him and me on a glorious day.

We head off to the nearest park which is in the center of a Jewish neighborhood.  We see a big gathering of families together. Women in ornate burkas, men in conversation.  Ramadan is over. Maybe they are celebrating.  Where are the young children?  We head over to the playground.

Aha! There they are.  The Jewish kids and the Muslim kids playing, exuberantly laughing, able to jump on the swings and the merry-go-round, cooperating together in play as if they've always been friends.

I spot the only other adults at the playground sitting on a bench, an Orthodox Jewish couple watching their daughter play on the swing with two other little girls. I know the couple is Jewish because the woman is wearing a typical headcovering often seen among religious Jewish women.  I strike up a conversation and they point out their daughter to me. She is the one in the blue sweater. We laugh about how much fun these Jewish and Muslim kids are having together and listen to their innocent conversation as they inquire about each other.  They are clearly have a great time. We enjoy watching them enjoying themselves. Joey is fascinated from his vantage point in the stroller listening to their high-pitches voices and observing the swinging motion.

After awhile, a tall male adult walks up in traditional Muslim attire and calls all his kids back to the picnic.  A beautiful park on a beautiful day with our children. Somehow we all feel connected just wanting our kids to be happy in this world. 

What else is there?

"G=d Brought Joy in the Midst of Pain"

It's been 13 years since my best friend, Robin, found her birth family when she was 48. She tells me repeatedly - even this morning- that I was the midwife who was instrumental in birthing a new life with her two younger sisters, two younger brothers, her aunties, cousins, nieces, nephews, and enumerable extended family members. When I embarked on the tedious search for spools of damaged microfilm from Salt Lake City's Mormon Church archives to locate Robin's original birth record and then secret friends in the underground railroad of sealed adoptions, who could have imagined then the phone conversation I would have with Robin this morning.

I should tell you first that when I located Robin's Aunt Minnie, I was very disappointed to find out that Estelle, Robin's birth mother, had already passed away.  Estelle Arshansky's pregnancy had been kept a secret from most of her family including her own parents.   Sisters, Minnie and Beattie, quietly arranged for their big sister to travel alone to a Jewish home for unwed mothers in Staten Island whilst most of the family believed she was leaving to help out an aunt who had just given birth. Soon, however, Estelle gave birth to her own child; a healthy baby girl but in anguish had no other choice but to relinquish her for adoption and return home to finish high school. Eventually as time passed, she went on to marry and have four more children and a new life without her precious first born. The secret was hidden away for half a century, that is until I called Aunt Minnie in Brooklyn thinking she might be Robin's biological mother. My ensuing questions elicited a deluge of primordial emotions and tears from the recesses of long repressed secrets. Aunt Minnie acquiesced that she had been praying for this moment when her sister's daughter would look for her. The four younger siblings were still reeling from the loss of their mother and suddenly an elder sister whom they had no knowledge of was about to enter their lives. Minnie and Beattie, had never told their youngest sister, Essie, either. Minnie called a family meeting with her four nieces and nephews and  told them, as they sat in stunned silence, the story of their mother's high school romance. They had an older sister who was given up for adoption who was now living in Denver, widowed, with three young children.

Let me just tell you that I travelled to Brooklyn for the eventual reuniting some three months later after letters and photos were exchanged. That evening in Brooklyn was profound and wonderful. Having grown up as an only child, albeit to wonderful and loving parents, the trepidation for Robin of meeting these new souls was overwhelming. Yet, upon seeing seeing their faces and feeling their hugs, it was love at first sight. The immediate bond they formed has only grown tighter over the last thirteen years.

Less than one month ago, Dennis, Robin's eldest sibling, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Last week, Robin flew to New York to be by his side in the ICU with his wife, Maxine, son Ian, his pregnant wife Dana, daughter Erin and other family members. The illness had progressed so rapidly that most of the family weren't even aware that Dennis was so seriously ill. He passed shortly thereafter. The shock and grief were indescribable.

At the funeral, Robin was told by her sister Abbe, "G=d brought you here, as our big sister. Take the seat our mother would have taken. You comfort us in our pain. You are her." Extended family members who attended and had not met Robin before were taken aback. She looked so much like her mother, Estelle.

At the Shiva house Saturday night, the Rabbi was conducting a Havdalah service, passing around the spices and speaking to the family which Robin was listening to with intensity. She became aware of whispering in the background. Suddenly Maxine spoke into Robin's ear, "Dana's in the dining room. Her water just broke!"

That night Dennis & Maxine's first grandchild, a baby girl was born. She was given the name Dylan after her grandfather, of blessed memory. And as Robin relayed this story to me this morning, she passionately exclaimed, "G=d brought joy in the midst of pain!"

"Did you hear what you just said to me, Robin?" I asked her. "Repeat what you just said."

She repeated, "G=d brought joy in the mist of pain!"

"Oh my G=d!" she whispered in understanding.

You see, dear reader, it was in the basement of a local Denver Church of the Latter Day Saints, scanning thousands of microfilmed birth records, that I had found out, and excitedly called Robin to tell her, that Estelle had indeed named her precious newborn baby daughter!  She had given her a name! In fact, the name was so beautiful and descriptive that there could never again be any  doubt whatsoever that Estelle had longed for the day, when just maybe, this treasured child might know how much her mother truly loved her.


That name was...Joy.